


Constance, Four Ways

by GretaRama



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Canon Compliant, Constance might be crazier, Diogenes is super crazy, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Sexual Content, Weird Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaRama/pseuds/GretaRama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some musings on Constance Greene. I originally started out trying to write Constance/Aloysius, even though I hate the thought of them together, because that's where the last book (Blue Labyrinth) seemed to be taking us...maybe. I was trying to figure out how in the world it could possibly happen, or work, or make any kind of sense. It still doesn't. It's just the worst.</p><p>I think I also picked up some hints (did you?) that Constance might actually be a biological Pendergast relative? Anyway, I figured I'd play with Constance and this is what happened. There are four chapters, and they're all unrelated, just random little vignettes. Hope you enjoy them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memoria Corporea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance in the portrait gallery, alone with her thoughts (could be anytime after The Wheel of Darkness)

Mrs. Trask collected her coat and purse and headed toward the door, Constance Greene at her side.

"There's a plate for you in the kitchen, Ms. Greene, if you change your mind about dinner," she said, as she opened the door.

"Thank you Mrs. Trask."

"And you have my number if you need anything, or if Mr. Pendergast turns up unexpectedly," she said.

"Of course."

"Then I'll be seeing you the day after tomorrow."

"Enjoy your time off."

Constance shut and locked the door behind the housekeeper and made her way back to the kitchen. A covered plate sat on the counter, but Constance ignored it, instead opening the refrigerator and removing a carafe of ice water, which she carried into the library. She set the carafe on the sideboard and opened a cabinet, removing a bottle of dark green liquid, reservoir glass, slotted spoon, and sugar dish, and began the preparation of a glass of absinthe.

Leaving the melting sugar to filter through the spoon, she picked up a digital tablet from a side table. After a moment, she set the tablet down and piano music filtered softly through the air, slowly at first, but with increasing speed and complexity. She paused in the middle of the room, closed her eyes, let the sound wash over her.

No one else alive knew the significance this particular piece of music held for her. Alkan, the _Grande sonate: Les quatre âges._

She opened her eyes and collected her drink, adding a little more water and stirring before making her way across the hall and into the portrait gallery. She sipped her drink as she walked, pausing before each image in turn, reflecting on what she knew of each of the people represented there, until she finally arrived at the portrait of Augustus Robespierre St. Cyr Pendergast, the doctor and philosopher, he of the wife with the peculiar affinity for the bayou and strange nocturnal practices.

Constance often wondered what sort of nocturnal practices would seem strange to the Pendergast family. She was deeply curious about Augustus' wife. It was unfortunate that the family was so unflaggingly focused on the line of male descent; the women of the family were all too often forgotten, but what she had managed to glean about them suggested that they were perhaps even more remarkable than the men. She lifted a hand and lightly touched the man's handsome, goateed face, and smiled faintly.

She finished her drink as she arrived in the alcove at the end of the hall, and set her glass down on a silver salver. She moved slowly to the black velvet settee in the center of the alcove and sat down.

Again she closed her eyes, listening to the music, remembering an earlier visit to this gallery. Her breath began to come a little faster, and one pale hand began unfastening pearl buttons at the end of her sleeve, exposing her wrist, which she caressed lightly. Next, her hand rose slowly and she touched the side of her own face, her neck, her hair.

She reclined against the sweeping upright end of the settee, her hand moving down, caressing and covering her breasts, languidly unbuttoning the high lace collar, then the placket. Her hand slid inside, cool against her warm skin, and her nipples tightened sharply in response.

Her other hand moved slowly down her side, reached her upper thigh, and gathered the fabric of her skirt, pulling it higher, exposing her legs. She toyed with the tops of her stockings, pushed them down, felt the silken skin of her inner thighs, pushed her hand between them, and sighed in pleasure as she found the warm, wet place and touched herself, tentatively at first, letting little thrills of sensation travel up her spine.

A memory surged through her then, of other hands on her breasts, of the slim, strong body over hers, of her hands grasping broad shoulders, of long lean legs gently pressing her legs apart...and then the surprising sensation of building urgency as he touched her _yes, right there_ with his tongue and then the _oh god_ unbearable tightening heat and wanting but not knowing what she wanted, not understanding how he could coax such a feeling from her with such small, deft movements of his fingers and tongue...and then, just as she thought she wouldn't be able to stand it for even another second, there was a short sharp shock of sweet pain and her body arched fiercely and his hands were holding her hips, pulling her against him and something _incredible_ was happening inside her, something wet and warm and pulsing and she could feel him inside her, rough and insistent, stretching her, reaching inside so deep, so deep, _yes, more, please, don't stop_ over and over and over until finally _impossible_ she reached an even higher crescendo and something fell apart inside her, quivering, and he cried out and she screamed with the force of it.

In the alcove, Constance's body arched, and she gave a soft cry, and a shudder moved from somewhere at the base of her spine to somewhere near the top, and she convulsed gently around her own fingers, then finally shivered into stillness. She lay there, panting, dress disarrayed, hair tousled, face flushed and eyes bright, staring into the darkness of the long hallway.

"Diogenes," she whispered.


	2. Never Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and Diogenes. Set right after the impromptu poetry recital in the portrait gallery from Book of the Dead.

Diogenes looks down at Constance Greene, at her pale face framed by the spill of her dark hair. He is trying to focus on fucking her, but there is a beautiful symmetry to what is happening, an almost fateful feeling to their joining, and he cannot fully turn his mind to the physical task at hand. The parallels between them are profound; at a young age, and almost exactly 100 years apart, they were subjected to horrors beyond imagining, and have become darkly adapted to the demon-haunted world where two men - two eerily similar men, like enough to be twins - have left them. He hasn't feigned his understanding of her plight; he _does_ understand, he might even be able to empathize with her if put his mind to it; the only lie in his behavior towards Constance is that any of that matters in the slightest.

He forces himself to focus on Constance. He lets his desire show in his eyes as he gazes into hers, he kisses her mouth and her throat as he moves gently inside her. He would like to go faster, harder, but he strongly suspects, based on the difficulty of his initial entry and her obvious inexperience, that this is her first time. Part of him would like to hurt her a little, to frighten her, to see what might happen - would she fight him? would it excite her? - but he schools himself to patience, to steadiness. Perhaps they can explore something a little more adventurous later. She gets the hang of it by the end- she rocks her hips in time with his, heightening his enjoyment, and seems to have relaxed somewhat, the mystery solved, the suspense dissipated at last.

As he moves to disengage himself from her body, his suspicion of her virginity is confirmed; there are spots of blood on the white fabric of her undergarments, and a little freshet of blood flows over him as he pulls away. He catches his breath at the sight of it; he is suffused with delight.

“Are you all right, child?” he asks as he sets her clothing to rights, covering her legs with her skirts, buttoning the placket of her dress over her breasts.

"I believe so," she says, sitting up a little. "There was only the slightest discomfort. On the whole it was..." she searches for the right word. "...exhilarating." She is glowing, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright; if he were capable of affection, he would find her adorable.

He has no trouble feigning the tenderness he must now show her; the bright bloody gift she has just given him made him sincerely solicitous. He should tend to her, help her to cleanse herself. He imagines wiping away the blood with a damp cloth, wringing the cloth into a white porcelain bowl, seeing the red drops against the glassy white surface. But no - he wants this evidence to be present on her body when Aloysius finds her. He would, ideally, like to fuck her in every room of the house, as messily as possible, but the mansion is much too extensive for such a thing to be practical. Still, he imagines Aloysius examining the velvet settee with a blacklight, looking for evidence, and has to stifle a laugh.

“Come along, my little wanton,” he says, scooping her into his arms and cradling her against his chest. Her body feels delicious there, so trusting, so helpless. He gazes down on her, marveling at the very fact of her existence. He hadn't been able to believe it at first. She looks shockingly young, a teenager really, everything so fresh and firm and new. He wonders how Uncle Antoine restrained himself; but then, his father's side of the family tends to produce taciturn, stoic men, remote and apparently unfeeling, like his father, like his brother.

He knows now that his brother isn't actually incapable of feeling. He had burned inside, seeing the love Aloysius lavished on his wife, the affection he has for his friends, but in the end, it was what made his plan so perfect. The conquest itself is nothing; what matters is that each and every time he thrusts into Constance, he is landing a killing blow to his brother. The power Constance gives him over Aloysius is ravishing; the fact of her nubility is merely a lagniappe.

He had actually seen the very moment when she had capitulated to him, and he hadn’t been able to wait another second; he had needed to take her there and then. He had lost control of himself - only a little, and only briefly, but still. Now, relatively sated, he wants to take his time savoring his imminent victory. He pauses at the top of the stairs. "Which room is yours?" he asks, although of course he knows. Moments later, he is laying her soft, yielding body down on the four-poster bed.

He begins to undress her once more, very slowly, but completely this time. By the time she is out of her dress, covered only by her gauzy, translucent shift, he is surprised to feel himself rising to the occasion yet again. It has been some time since his last sexual conquest; he hasn't been able to risk any complications for quite some time. Perhaps that accounts for his sudden concupiscence. He peels away her shift, caresses her skin, suckles and bites her pleasingly round breasts.

“May I not see you as well?” she asks, sitting up, one hand extending, lightly touching his chest. He catches her hand firmly, and presses it to his mouth. 

“In good time,” he says.

“Now,” she answers, her hands going to his buttons. He catches her hand again and she levels a look at him that startles him so much he releases her immediately. Her physical youth is deceptive, he reminds himself. At times she reminds him of his great aunt Cornelia, such is the force of her personality. This sudden flash of steel from her is unnerving, but intriguing. He leans back, resting on his elbows, one eyebrow lifted.

Still fixing him with that commanding, arch stare, she shoves his shirt aside and caresses his chest. He gasps at the contact. He instinctively braces himself to fend off her intimate invasion, has to make himself relent, allow himself to enjoy her touch. And it _is_ enjoyable; part of him longs to be touched this way - or at least, he tells himself, he enjoys knowing that someone wishes to do so - but another part resists, afraid of how vulnerable he is to this tactile assault. 

She is clearly fascinated by his body and this puts him back on solid ground; he is experienced in this arena, she is not. He is still in control. She traces the breadth of his shoulders, the gingery hair that narrows from chest to belly. She caresses his flat, slim waist and hips, smooths her palms up his broad back. That she does all this with an air of pure curiosity, rather than out of some misguided attempt to seduce him, is oddly entrancing, so much so that he doesn’t even stop her when she unfastens his belt and fly and shucks him out of his trousers.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the whole of him, and she touches him cautiously, then with increasing boldness. He smiles, flattered by her obvious appreciation. As her caresses grow less tentative, he feels himself hardening in earnest, blood pumping to the ready, and enjoys the excruciating, sweet ache of it.

"Have you truly never been with a man before, Constance?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse.

"Truly," she murmurs. "I have never even seen a man - a living man - like this before."

"Were you never curious?"

"Of course I was," she replies.

"And are you still?"

He hears a sharp intake of breath and her bold gaze drops for a moment. "Always."

"Good," he says softly, pulling her down beside him. "Tell me what you're wondering about right now."

"I hardly know how to explain it," she says, blushing. He pulls her closer, his hands on her buttocks, sliding between, circling her thighs.

"Perhaps you would like me to guess," he whispers.

"Yes," she says, panting a little now, as he finds her clitoris with one fingertip and caresses it lightly.

"Yes?"

She moans wordlessly as as he rolls her onto her back and replaces his fingertip with his tongue.

He pauses in his ministrations. "Do you like this, Constance? Shall I continue?"

"Oh," she exhales sharply. "Yes - yes, please," and he reapplies himself, enjoying her gasps of pleasure as he slides two fingers into her, matching their rhythm to the flicking of his tongue. He can feel tension building in the tiny muscles that encircle his fingers, can see her hands clenching and unclenching on the bedspread. This little generosity is pleasurable for him beyond the gratification of his own flesh; this complex interplay of manipulation, control, and deceit. She is a marionette, flinching in response to his lightest touch on this convergence of delicate nerves.

As she plunges closer and closer to her climax, he imagines the scalpel flashing, the shocking spray that will adorn the walls, the dark blot creeping across her sheets, dripping from the edge of the bedspread. He imagines his brother, kneeling in the midst of the carnage, flinging back the sheets, seeing the smears of blood on the insides of her thighs, and realizing the totality of his failure. He almost slips into more dangerous territory - his hands on Constance's throat, slowly extinguishing a life that has burned for over a hundred years. Or - better still - he could stage the suicide, exsanguinate her over a period of hours. Uncle Antoine surely has a fleam somewhere in the house, he could...but no, it has to be authentic; his brother has a discerning eye.

"Constance, forgive me," he rasps. "I must have you again." His timing is excellent; on his third thrust into her lush, tight confines, he feels her begin to shudder and pulse around him. She cries out with the force of it, back arching in delight. Her response is so primal it overcomes his control and he pulls her hips closer, thrusts harder, faster, and comes hard inside her, seeing stars behind his eyes.

He rolls both of them to one side, and they remain joined, her leg thrown over his hip, her head tucked under his chin. He holds her tightly against himself, still feeling her body pulsing around him, his mind blank and silent for several seconds. She reaches up, stroking his hair, his face, smoothing her thumb over the brow above his dead eye.

"You don't really resemble your brother," she says. "And yet your faces are alike in a way I can't quite describe."

"Perhaps we could talk about my brother some other time," he says dryly, moving his hips against hers. "Surely he needn't insinuate himself between us here, now?"

Her eyes widen as she feels him begin to stiffen inside her, and in truth, even he is surprised. "It is interesting to me," she says, her hand still resting along his cheek. "He looked so much like my former guardian, and they are alike in other ways as well, and yet..."

"And yet?"

" _You_ remind me more of Dr. Enoch," she says. "You attract me, and make me a little afraid, in the same way I was with..." she trails off, uncertain.

He can't quite bring himself to tell her she has nothing to fear, can't quite make himself tell that lie, so he pulls her close, kisses her fiercely, losing himself in his enjoyment of her body. And yet, even as they melt into one another again, limbs and tongues tangling, bodies pressed warmly together, he considers how prescient her words will seem to her tomorrow. He revels in her hot, liquid warmth, even as he imagines her lying stiff and cold in a sea of blood.


	3. Chapter 3

“Aloysius?” 

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Aloysius turns a little, his body shifting next to Vincent’s. He doesn’t reply, but one fair eyebrow rises in silent inquiry. Vincent smiles and smooths the man’s tousled hair affectionately. “What’s going on with you and Constance?”

Aloysius lets his head rest against Vincent’s shoulder, eyes downcast. “Going on?” he asks, his voice cool. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“You’re spending a lot of time together lately,” Vincent says, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. He knows he’s on dangerous ground, but he’s encouraged by the fact that Aloysius didn’t shut him down completely right at the outset. “Not that it’s a problem – I mean, obviously I’ve got Laura and we never said we’d be exclusive, I’m just…curious, I guess. I mean, the way she looks at you…” He trails off as Aloysius sits up, the comforter slipping away from his bare torso. “Not that I blame her, exactly,” he adds.

“Constance’s feelings, while they are, naturally, of concern to me, are immaterial,” Aloysius says. “Given her history with other members of my family, not to mention certain…ah, criminal exploits in her more recent past, any transgression beyond the bounds of our quasi-familial relationship would be unconscionable.”

Vincent shrugs, sitting up a little straighter, resting his shoulders against the headboard. “She’s a very beautiful woman,” he observes. 

“True, but quite irrelevant to me. And to you,” Aloysius adds, and Vincent catches a flicker of dire paternal warning in the other man’s eyes. He imagines Constance awaiting a prom date, Pendergast opening the door on some hapless youngster and leveling this look at him. It’s more effective than a shotgun full of rock salt. 

“You’ve never even thought about it? I’m just asking,” he adds, holding up one hand when it looks like Aloysius might be on the verge of getting genuinely angry. “Because she seems like a very lonely person. I can’t say I understand her, but I know what it’s like to be on your own when you’d rather not. It sucks. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if you and her…well. You get what I’m saying.”

“I do, and I disagree; it would indeed be ‘the worst thing.’ The very worst thing imaginable for her, which is as far as I’ve gotten in any contemplation of my relationship with Constance. It would be tantamount to anointing her as some sort of family concubine. The very thought is appalling.” His words are decisive, but are accompanied by a languid caress along Vincent’s inner thigh.

“Does she agree with that interpretation?” Vincent asks, because he doesn’t think she does. 

Aloysius followed the path his hand had just made with his lips. “I am through discussing Constance,” he says quietly. “I would rather talk about something else.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. Then, after several seconds of silence, “Are you…trying to distract me?” he asks, his breath coming a little faster, one hand drifting down to Aloysius’s blond head, the other tightening around a handful of sheets.

“Yes.”

“It’s working.”

“Excellent.”


	4. Shady Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually have no idea where this came from. I was thinking about Constance and Antoine Leng Pendergast and this just kind of happened. This is the last scene in "Book of the Dead," from Constance's perspective.

Constance wandered the olive grove, listening to the rustling leaves, hating Viola Maskelene. Her hatred burned right through the pleasantly golden afternoon and the faintly spicy scent of the silver and bronze trees. She understood, of course, that Viola didn’t know anything about her history, but the woman’s presumption in offering her advice and commiseration, her patronizing solicitude, were unbearable. She glanced back to the terrace where Pendergast and Viola sat, talking about her, and imagined shoving the woman off the terrace and over the bluff, watching her body break on the strange formations of volcanic rock below. 

She hated Pendergast, too, for subjecting her to this aimless and endless tour around Europe, and especially for bringing her here. What was the point? She wanted to tell him that she was sick to death of travel, that she couldn’t look at one more painting, couldn’t eat one more extravagant meal, couldn’t stand to take in any more architecture or history or points of cultural interest. Everything reminded her of Diogenes, of her unspeakably foolish decision to trust him, of their time together, of conversations they had, of the outcome of those decisions. He is in every Renaissance portrait, every glorious piece of Italian statuary, every landscape, the moral of every story. But to say any of this, she would have to tell Aloysius what happened, and that she would not do.

She hated herself for loving Pendergast in spite of everything, even though she suspected Diogenes had been right when he said Aloysius felt nothing more for her than a guilt-driven sense of duty. It appalled her, how little that knowledge altered her feelings, how it diminished not at all her hope that he might one day return them. She had known, of course, why he wanted to come to Capraia, and she he had wanted to – intended to - refuse, but then he had looked at her with his cool gray eyes, his expression hinting at a well of deep pain and longing, and she had capitulated immediately. 

She had hoped to endure the trip with good grace, drawing on her formerly boundless patience, but it seemed that spring had finally run dry. It was excruciatingly painful, being here while he and Viola gazed at one another like Tristan and Iseult. She wanted to lie down in the olive grove and sleep until she died, she wanted to scream, she wanted to set the whole island on fire and laugh while everything burned. The best she could manage was to stay away from them and speak as little as possible, to avoid saying something shocking.

As she wandered among the trees, a strange thing happened. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the olive grove grew shadowy and dark. The rustling of leaves overhead transformed the grove into a place of ancient secrets, and in the creaking of the trees and the whispering of the tall grasses nearby, she could almost hear voices. One of the voices was poignantly familiar.

A tall, dark shadow flickered in the leaves ahead of her, and she could _see_ him, hear him, and suddenly, heartbreakingly, she was home. There stood Dr. Enoch Leng, in the whispering darkness behind the tree.

_Why so angry, Constance?_ he asked. _I told you the world was a dreadful place, and now you’ve seen the truth of it for yourself. Come home, child, take refuge in your library, and forget these trifling worldly matters._

Hardly believing her eyes, she continued walking forward. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m going to have a child. I’m scared, and I’m hurt, and I don’t know what to do.” 

She tried to peer around the trunk to see the shadowy shape, but it seemed always to be just out of sight. Was she going mad? Would she care if she were? Wouldn’t it be better than the cold, sane misery of the last several weeks?

_Scared? You? I don’t believe it. You weren’t afraid of Diogenes, and he frightened even me. In fact, I think you enjoyed him, right up until the end, didn’t you, my dear?_

Any doubts she harbored about whether this could really be her own Dr. Enoch disappeared; only he would have guessed at this. The flickering shadows drew in closer around her, and she felt his presence strongly. She had always taken a deep comfort in his company, even when they didn’t speak or acknowledge one another; his continued existence, his centrality to her whole life, was more than merely reassuring, it was essential – at least, she had always believed so.

“It’s true,” she admitted. “And that is why I’m frightened, now. What kind of mother would I be? What kind of child could possibly result from such a union?”

_Don’t be maudlin, Constance. You’ve done remarkably well, under the circumstances. Although I admit, it is regrettable that you have chosen this particular time to reproduce. This generation, more than any other, will undoubtedly come to have a fresh appreciation of the concept of “nasty, brutish, and short,” but what’s done is done. It shall be an interesting coda to our work, don’t you think, to see how your condition progresses?_

“Interesting,” she said. “And possibly disastrous.”

_Do you know, I always wondered if it were possible, but…well, it wouldn’t have been fair of me to ask you to try it, given the circumstances. Good thing we didn’t – what would we have done with a child? You were almost more than I could handle, my Constance._

The thought – one she has never considered – of having a child years ago, while Dr. Enoch was alive and relatively well, was surprisingly agreeable to her. She could easily imagine the little boy she might have had, how clever and precious he would have been. Another companion, someone for whom the world was new and wonderful, might have changed everything. 

_I did love you, Constance, in my way,_ said the shade of Enoch Leng. _And I seem to remember warning you, countless times, that your fondness for novels would bring you to grief in the end._

She smiled bitterly. “If only I had contented myself with novels,” she said. “I might not face such a quandary, now.”

_You must tell my nephew whatever you can. He is desperate to help you. He fears for you. It is cruel of you to shut him out._

Constance glanced over her shoulder again, at Aloysius and Viola, seated together by the sea, two people inhabiting a completely different world. “What can he do to help? He doesn’t understand me at all. Even Diogenes…” but she couldn’t bring herself to complete the thought.

_Yes, Diogenes understood you very well, didn’t he? I think his unique experiences may have put him more in touch with that side of himself; or perhaps his contempt for humanity simply made women seem less mysterious to him. Alas, I think Aloysius takes more after me; we do very well with women as long as they aren’t doing anything overtly feminine. Femininity was always an undiscovered and undiscoverable country for me. Always made me feel a little wrong-footed, as you probably noticed._

She flushed as she recalled several instances in which his total bemusement in the face of some delicate feminine problem of hers had been made all too plain.

_You know our family well, Constance. How long do you think he’ll be able to sit in the sun with a charming lady, unconcerned about the price he – or she – might pay for such pleasure? Don’t begrudge him this moment. He’ll have few enough, in the years to come._

“I’m not sure he can even afford to do it now,” she said. “There have already been costs. This whole thing seems so…frivolous.”

_True. But the poor boy doesn’t know what to do with you, Constance, and you’re not helping. You needn’t tell him everything, but I think you must at least tell him the one thing – even he would figure it out in the end, you know._

She blushed furiously. “I can’t stand the thought of telling him,” she said. “And I don’t know why. Every time he tries to talk to me, I feel like I’m filled with fire, so angry and resentful I can’t even bear to remain in his presence. I know it’s not his fault, I know I shouldn’t be angry with him…but it seems some part of me is furious, and won’t see reason.”

_Perhaps you should be angry with him. Perhaps he does bear some responsibility._

“He was in prison,” she responded. “What could he have done to prevent any of this?”

 _What indeed?_ the voice asked. _It seems to me that perhaps you have some ideas. Could he not have explained to you why his brother presented such a grave threat? Contacted you to let you know of his concern and care for you?_

She had no response to this, and the voice continued. _The only way forward is to forgive him, Constance. You forgave me, in the end, for which I shall be eternally grateful. If you could do that, I believe you can do anything._

“I hate the thought of becoming even more of a burden to him, an even greater encumbrance. I feel so helpless and stupid, and the worst part…” she broke off with a shudder. “The worst part is for him to know, to know _all_ of it, when it is so…shameful. And now this,” she gestured vaguely at her middle. “A perpetual reminder of my deepest humiliation.”  
 _It seems so now, I know, my dear. But you know, far better than most, how true it is that time bears away all things, don’t you? Poor Aloysius, he’ll be verklempt at first, but I expect he’ll come through all right in the end. And so will you, Constance. So will you._

She looked back to the terrace again, to the couple sitting at the table, and sighed resignedly. “Very well,” she said, but the sun emerged once again, and the olive grove was just an olive grove, and Dr. Leng was gone.

After a little while, she made her way back through the grove and up the little hill to the house. She leaned over to pluck a yellow wildflower from a sunny patch between the trees and shredded it to its component parts as she walked.

As she drew nearer, Viola called out, “How do you like Capraia?”

She might as well have asked how Constance liked Hell. “Very nice,” she replied flatly, leaning over the balustrade, tossing the remains of the flower over the edge and watching them drift down to the water and rocks below. Viola disappeared inside and Pendergast walked over to her, all caution and solicitude. She could barely focus on his words at first, didn’t even really hear whatever he was saying about Viola and Egypt; it didn’t matter, it was so insignificant as to be ridiculous.

He stepped closer. “You need to let go, Constance. You’re safe now, Diogenes is dead.”

She had never once considered the danger she was in, had been carried along by the swift current of her rage, but she felt too tired to explain that to him. “I know.”

“Then you know there’s nothing more to fear. All that’s past. Finished.” Good lord, did he think she was ever afraid of Diogenes? She hadn’t been, not even at the end. She felt despair like an ache in her bones; that he should understand her so little, that he should misinterpret everything so completely, was exhausting. “No, it isn’t,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and despite her resolution to tell him, she couldn’t get the words out. Would he even hear her? Would it make any difference? “What do you mean?” he asked again, and she sighed in resignation.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face when she said it, but she saw him stagger, sink bonelessly into the nearest chair and rest his head in his hands. He stayed there, the very portrait of anguish, for a long time.

“Forgive me for asking, but are you quite sure?” he asked finally, his voice rough and affectless.

“Of course,” she answered. “I would not have told you if it were not beyond all possibility of doubt.” He flinched at that, and she realized her admission that she wouldn’t have confided in him must feel like a further indictment of his failure as her guardian.

He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but he looked dreadful, frantic, completely undone. “Have you…have you thought at all about what you would like to do about it?” he asked.

The question seemed nonsensical. “Do about it?” she asked bleakly. “What is there to be done, what choices do I have? I suppose I will wait the usual amount of time and then there will be a child, unless there is some unforeseen difficulty.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. He stood, took her hands. “Constance, you needn’t have the child if you don’t wish to. My god – my god, how far along are you?”

She laughed mirthlessly, not dignifying the question with a response. “Of course,” he said, in the midst of the obvious arithmetic. “It’s not yet even six weeks. Constance,” he gripped her hands even more tightly. “It’s not too late. You can have the pregnancy terminated, if you wish.”

“Terminated?” At first, her mind went blank. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Viola wasn’t headed back out onto the terrace. “An abortionist?” she asked, totally dismayed, remembering the pale, bleeding women, already exhausted from too many pregnancies, dying slowly of septicemia in alleys and flophouses.

He blinked in confusion at her obvious alarm, then seemed to realize the source of their misunderstanding, and calmed himself with a deep breath. “Of course,” he said. “I apologize, I’m a little…overwrought. It isn’t a dangerous, back alley affair any longer. It’s perfectly safe,” he insisted. “It’s a commonplace procedure, performed by a doctor in a hospital. It may even be early enough that they could use mifepristone, it’s a drug – you could swallow a few pills, no surgery required.”

Such a thing simply never occurred to her, and she felt a spark of hope, followed quickly by doubt. “I don’t know,” she said, helpless in the face of this unexpected alternative. “Aloysius, I just don’t know.”

“If we hurry, at least you’ll have the choice,” he said, dropping her hands and walking swiftly into the house.

He returned almost immediately, and though she cringed to imagine the unforgivably brusque farewell he must have just paid to Viola, she also had to subdue the little swell of triumph it inspired. Her loathing for Viola had melted into something closer to pity; the woman had deserved to know of Diogenes’ fate, and after all, none of this was her fault.

“We’ll return to New York at once, you can be seen right away. As soon as we get back to the mainland, I’ll call and make arrangements at the Feversham clinic.”

“Very well,” she said absently, but as he approached her, ready to lead her back to the ferry, she looked back out at the olive grove. “Constance?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

She smiled sadly at him. “No,” she said. “It isn’t.” She stood still and silent for another long moment, then turned to look up at him. “Thank you, but I think I would like to return to New York alone. You….you should stay here.”

“Constance,” he said, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

“No, Aloysius, I insist. Let me go. I can be home in a day, and I can have Proctor make the necessary arrangements. I need the time to myself, to think. Please,” she added. “Please give me this time. It’s more important than anything else you could possibly do for me.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she could see how much he wanted to argue, to protest, but he didn’t, and she was grateful for that.

“In a few weeks, if you’re feeling well enough, I thought we might make that trip to the monastery in Tibet,” he said. “I still think it would be good for both of us.”

“Of course,” she said. “If the procedure is as straightforward as you say, and there are no complications.”

He flushed a little at that, a wash of pink staining the tops of his cheekbones, and she smiled again. She could hear Dr. Leng’s slightly amused commiseration, _Poor Aloysius,_ in her mind. “You mustn’t worry about me,” she said. 

“I can hardly stop myself, Constance,” he said. “You know I...well, that I worry about you all the time.”

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was enough. “Thank you,” she said, and she stepped forward and embraced him, kissed his cheek lightly before he could even recover his composure, and whispered in his ear, “I forgive you,” before she stepped back. Then she collected her little valise from the tiled floor of the terrace and walked briskly toward the road and the ferry, before he could think of anything else to say.


End file.
